


Crashing Down

by johnsarmylady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:58:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boredom drives Sherlock and John into an argument. This is an extension of a chapter from Alpha-Omenga, as requested by several reviewers</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Altercation

Sherlock had been experimenting on the spore samples for more than two weeks, although progress was slow and it was doing absolutely nothing for his boredom levels.

John watched as the consulting detective, like a hyperactive child, paced from the window to the fire, through the kitchen and on into their bedroom.  He paused there for a moment or two, then back to the window, and all the time his body seemed to be twitching as if assaulted by electric shocks.

On maybe his hundredth circuit of the room Sherlock turned away from the window and found John blocking his path, his hand pressing against Sherlock’s chest.

“You need to stop this,” he said softly.

Sherlock sneered “And do what? Not everyone can switch off the way you do!” as he spoke he continued his perambulations, forcing John to walk backwards.

“Sherlock please…..”

“Please what, John? Oh just leave me be, for God’s sake!” Sherlock pushed the older man out of the way. John, unprepared for such an attack overbalanced, hitting the kitchen table with some force.

Before either man could react the experiment went crashing down to the floor, the glass petri dishes shattering on impact. A heavy silence hung over them, then Sherlock exploded with rage.

“Do you realise how much work I put into that experiment? Do you?” his voice dripped venom.

“God, Sherlock, I…..”

“Don’t John – just don’t. I realise you try your best, but you’ll never understand what the work means to me, will you?”  He towered over the doctor, his face rigid with anger.

“Of course I understand…..”

“No! You understand ordinary people, John, because you are ordinary – boringly so! I’ve had enough, d’you hear? Enough of your pathetic needs and wants.” He leaned very close to John’s pale face and snarled “Frankly, I’ve had enough of you……” turning around Sherlock pulled on his coat and stormed out “…don’t be here when I get back!”

 


	2. Packing

Sherlock pulled on his coat and stormed out “…don’t be here when I get back!”

John stared, stunned, at the closed door.  As arguments went that was spectacular, but the leaden feeling that settled in the blond doctors’ stomach told him this was not going to blow over in the same way all the others had – for starters Sherlock had never told him to go before, never been quite so cold, so harsh, so very hateful.

Swallowing against the tears that threatened to overwhelm him he drew himself up and straightened his shoulders.  It was over, that much was obvious. Sherlock no longer wanted him; he certainly didn’t need him – if indeed he ever had.

Looking around the bedroom he realised there was very little in it that was truly his, just his clothes and a few items that Sherlock had bought him, like the moleskin covered journal, and the elegantly understated Parker pen that belonged with it.  He added these to the clothes in his old army kit bag, picked up his wallet and coat, and went in to the kitchen.

Pulling the flat keys from his pocket he left them on the table, then took his last look at his former home. The tears fell now.

As he left he pinned a single word note on the door.

‘ ** _Bye_**.’

 


	3. Almost Lost

Sherlock looked around him, realising for the first time how far he had walked.  Oxford Street was busy, but on this chilly January afternoon the crowds were already thinning, the bargain hunters had spent all their money and were headed home.

Standing still on the street corner, the consulting detective noticed the shop window, and the assortment of cosy, arran-knit jumpers displayed, and suddenly he couldn’t swallow past the lump in his throat.

 _‘John!’_ The name ran though his head.

 He knew he’d been unfair – more than unfair – to the man who had stood by him no matter how hard things were.  Worse still he knew that John would have been hurt by his angry words. Wasting no time, he hailed the nearest cab.

“221B Baker Street” he snapped as he threw himself into the vehicle, pulling the door shut and slumping against the window.

 

“John” Sherlock called as he dashed up the stairs, “John!” but as he reached the door to the flat he froze.  One word. That was all that was left.  Tearing the paper from the door he read the word, written in John’s distinctive doctor’s scrawl, his hand shaking.

“Sherlock…” Mrs Hudson stood at the bottom of the stairs. “John’s not there, dear. I heard him go out about half an hour ago. He was carrying that heavy kit bag of his.”

“Do you know where?” he ran back down the stairs and grasped her arms. She shook her head.

Running back up to the flat he let himself in, hoping for inspiration or a clue, something to tell him where his friend might have gone. 

Walking around the house nothing looked different, nothing except the empty drawers in their bedroom, and the bunch of keys on the kitchen table.  Sherlock closed his eyes and wished he had held his tongue, John hadn’t deserved the insults.

A noise behind him made him turn sharply, his hopes rising, but it was only Mrs Hudson.

“Sherlock dear,” she walked past him to the window. “There’s a strange lad over there, he keeps staring up at your window.”

Peering over her shoulder, the young man recognised one of his homeless network.

“Going out Mrs Hudson, don’t worry about him – I know him.” And grabbing John’s keys he was gone.

On the other side of Baker Street the homeless boy held out a cardboard box with a few pennies in it.

“Spare change, Guv?”

“Why?”

“cause I’ve seen a doctor crying, mister. In the park.” He nodded his head towards Regents Park.

Sherlock threw a twenty pound note into the box.

“It’s a very big park.” He commented, pulling his coat around him.

“It’s warmer in the bandstand, sir, lots of homeless shelter there.”

Sherlock nodded and strode away, hearing the voice of the homeless lad following him.

“Hope Doc John’s okay…”

 

Through the park gates, up towards Queen Mary’s Gardens and the bandstand beside the open air theatre Sherlock hurried, hoping that he wasn’t too late. As the painted wooden structure came in sight, his footsteps slowed, until he reached the steps leading up into the circular building.

John sat, his feet up on the seat beside him, his arms around his shins.  Behind him was his old army kit bag, and his head was resting on his knees.

“John?”

The blond head shot up, and red eyes peered through the fading light at the familiar silhouette.

“Don’t worry Sherlock,” came the hoarse response “I’ll soon work out where to go, I won’t stay where people will be forced to ask you where I am. It’s just…” his voice cracked, but he swallowed and carried on “I need to wait ‘til tomorrow, when my army pension hits the bank. I can get a train to Harry’s then.”

“Don’t, John, please…” Sherlock stepped further into the bandstand and crouched down beside his friend.

“Look, Sherlock…”

“John.”  A slender finger pressed against the older man’s lips. “John I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

Hope almost shone in John’s eyes, hope that warred with disbelief. Sherlock stood and held out a hand.

“Come home…..please?”

John allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and pulled into the circle of Sherlock’s arms.

“Don’t leave me, John. I love you.” He tightened his arms around his friend, his lover. “I need you.”

John sighed and relaxed against Sherlock’s chest.

“I need you too, you stupid idiot!”

Sherlock placed a gentle kiss on John’s head, before leaning over and picking up the olive green kit bag.

“Come on John, home.” He looked down into John’s  eyes. “And to think I almost lost you.”


End file.
